But when he dried and covered himself with a robe, it became apparent that, by some coincidence (or queer design), each distortion had been compensated for by another, and nothing untoward showed in his clothed body except perhaps the careful awkwardness of his walk, in which he observed his delicate balance with each step.
For a long time he lay on his bed reading, beside the open window. The fan swung cool drafts on him; little billows of summer scent fell over his face, smells of flowers and cut grass. From the surrounding yards came voices, the clinking of glasses, the hiss of hoses and sprinklers. From above came the restless movements of his nephew, drawing or painting or just pacing out his sick and furious misery. It was all nothing to Sol Nazerman. He was reading The Memoirs of Henri Brulard in French and he made his brain dwell on the intricacies of a distant past.
When the light had been gone from his window for a long time and the crickets were as loud as the random sounds of the few people still outside in their yards, he laid the book down on the night table and turned off the light. Then he convinced himself that he was sleepy; it worked and very quickly, too, and he slept.
His face was pressed against the wood. His eyes were in the open part between the slats of the cattle car. The plains of Poland moved by monotonously, almost repetitively, as though the train were still and the same landscape were being displayed over and over again. His son David squealed with a rodent sound of helplessness somewhere down near Sol’s leg. “I’m slipping in it. Daddy, in the dirty stuff. I can’t stay up.” But what could he do about it? He was pressed into that one position by two hundred other bodies. So he studied the tidal landscape. Yes, it was the same view over and over. There, that house, low and black, with a broken stone chimney, he had seen that at least a dozen times. They were just standing still and, by some odd circumstance, the earth was being unrolled for their view. “Do something for him,” his wife, Ruth, cried harshly beside him. She had little Naomi up against her chest, held there without her arms, for the crush of bodies held them all as in ice. “Sol, don’t let him fall down in that! All our filth is down there. It would be terrible for him to lie in it!” Just moving his nose down an inch toward the carpeting of feces nauseated Sol. The child would turn his insides out. He tried to move a little more than his fingers, felt the soft, damp hair of David’s head as it slid slowly downward. “I can’t,” he complained peevishly. “What do you expect of me? I cannot move a muscle.” In the dim, slatted light he saw his wife’s grim face. She seemed to hate him for all this. “But I can’t, I can’t. I can do nothing.” His voice sounded flat and unconcerned and he tried to put more passion into it. “I am helpless, do you hear?” She continued looking at him with burning eyes and motionless features, like one of those startlingly lifelike wax figures. “I can do nothing.” His voice still came out in the same dispassionate, soulless way. There came the sound of the boy at his feet making savage, empty retches, vomiting and slipping around in the bottomless filth. The roar of the train, the endless wailing of all the crushed people, and his wife’s burning glass eyes in a waxen face. “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” Sol shrieked in the awful din.
The Pawnbroker moaned in his sleep without waking. No one stirred in the house; they were used to his noisy sleep.
The morning was gray and cool, and the air, even along the Harlem River, lay still and dense; nothing broke clear of the edge-softening light. Sol looked at the numerous bridges, flat against their increasing distances, and their various textures of steel and brick and concrete were as insubstantial as drawings on tinted paper. He sighed heavily.
There seemed to be few people on the streets as he un locked the store, and those few moved slower, too, as though their vitality were reduced by the unreality of the light. For a moment he believed some weird blight had carried off the millions, and he made unnecessary noise with the iron screens and slapped at the counters as he passed them. He flicked on the fluorescents, and as he watched them shudder into light he was startled by the voice.
“An’ d’Lawd say, ‘Let dere be Light.”’ John Rider chuckled from the doorway, a more or less perpendicular figure in faded railroad denims and a high-crowned, long-beaked engineer’s cap. “Good mornin’, Sol. Hah, you shoulda seen you jump. Bad nerves, all you young fellas got bad nerves.”
Sol’s heart slowed from its brief tattoo; he managed a faint bend to his lips. “John,” he said. No significance there; the old man came every other morning to sweep out or wash the floors or windows. Stop looking for omens.
“You late, Sol. I been waitin’ across d’street a half hour now. Oversleep, hah? Ah, you youngsters, hell-raisin’ all night, I know, I know. Den ya cain’t shake youself out of bed in d’mornin’. Pay no heed to d’Book, that’s d’trouble. Dere a time to sow an’ a time to reap . . . a time to wuk an’ a time . . .”
“Don’t bother to wash the floor today, John. Just sweep out a little.” Oh yes, I have been hell-raising all night, that is the truth.
“Guten Morgen, Sol. Hey, how’s this for prompt? Not even eight thirty,” Ortiz said, cat-walking in and then spinning around to stare back at the street. “Man, it’s a funny day outside,” he said with a sudden change of tone. “I got a feelin’ we gonna be very quiet today; I got a feelin’ a lot of people crawl off an’ die someplace during the night.”
Sol looked up at him. He felt the strange sensation of having his thoughts pried into.
But the ivory-dark face was bland and innocent, admitted to no trespassing. “Well, it give me a chance to catch up some more on them suits. I was talking to that George Smith, you know, that kook comes in here to talk to you sometimes. Got the hots for young girls, that guy, but he intelligent, too. I think he been to college one time. Well, anyway, he give me a idea over in the restaurant this morning. I tellin’ him what I doing with the suits and all and he say I should cross-index!” He leaned over the counter, his eyes shining and provocative. And then, in spite of Sol’s unmoved expression, he supplied his own motivation. “I make a list of the suits accordin’ to size first. Then I make another list of all the suits accordin’ to condition, and then I make a third list of all the suits accordin’ to the type suit it is; like summer, or serge or gabardine. And on each list I refer to where it is on the other lists and like that. Pretty soon I can put my finger on a suit, just the one I want, quick as a flash.” He stood grinning before Sol’s little cage, triumphant and pleased with himself, his teeth whitely perfect in the smooth tawny face, his own medal of accomplishment, perfect and delicate, like something carved by a dreamer.
“All right,” the Pawnbroker said, his voice rough and old. “If it’s quiet, you can fool with that. Just don’t make too big a project. There are other things besides that, you know.” He was huge and ugly, and he wished his ugliness to pierce the smallest of dreams. And there were other things besides that lovely ordering and tabulating, that creating; there were grubbier, more joyless things, which his business depended on. “I want you to go over the junk in the cellar, too; see what we have for auction next month. There’s all kinds of filth down there. I want you to get to that when you finish with your playing upstairs.”
For a moment Ortiz’s face hardened. But his plans had deep roots, could survive mere words. “Oh, that cross-index going to increase efficiency. You gonna thank me. You get busy, don’t hesitate to call on your-friend-and-mine, Jesus Ortiz. I’m available.” He smiled again, and Sol couldn’t look at his smile.
“In d’sweet bye an bye,” John Rider crooned, following the dirt out to the sidewalk behind his wide push-broom, “We will meet on dat beautiful shore.”
Sol
